Octavia has reserved me a page in her letter which I hasten to
improve. I thank you, my Dear Mother, for yours, and beg you will
often write me, now Octavia is with me and cannot tell me about home.
I am at length settled at housekeeping very pleasantly, and do not
find it such a tremendous undertaking. I have been fortunate in
servants, which makes it much less troublesome; the house we have
taken does not altogether please us, but at any time but May ’tis
extremely difficult to get a house. In the Spring we shall be able to
suit ourselves. Mr. Bowne wishes to build and is trying to find a lot
that suits him,—if so, we shall build the next season. Almost
everybody in New York hire houses, but I think it much pleasanter
living in one’s own. I am more and more pleased with New York, there
is more ease and sociability than I expected. I admire Uncle and Aunt
more and more every day, and Mr. Bowne thinks there never was Uncle’s
equal,—such a character as he had often imagined, though not supposed
existed. I believe I shan’t go to the next Assembly; Octavia will go
with Aunt King. You say Mr. Bowne must write you, and as a subject
mention the dividends from the Insurance Office. In the Summer there
was no dividend, no profits; the next dividend will be soon. Mr.
Codman thinks there will be a tolerable one,—you shall hear as soon as
it takes place; we have received nothing as yet. Uncle and Aunt always
inquire particularly about you, and desire to be mentioned. Make my
best love to all friends, kiss the children and tell them not to
forget sister Eliza. I live in the hope of seeing you next
Autumn—Heaven grant I may not be disappointed! Remember me with my
best love to my Father and all the family. Adieu; write me soon, and
believe me
Your affectionate ELIZA S. BOWNE.
Mrs. Robert Southgate.
New York, March.
Dear Miranda:
I have been talking of writing to you so long that I think it is quite
time I should talk no longer, but act; but you should not have waited
for me to write. You knew both Mr. Bowne and myself would have been
very glad to have heard from you,—all about your school, your
acquaintance, amusements or anything, and I have a thousand things to
take up my attention that you have not. Do you return home this
Spring? We shall find you at home when we come. I have got one or two
trifles I want to send you, but can’t find an opportunity; there are
so few people from our way come to New York, that ’tis very difficult
to send anything. I hear a strange story about Isabella Porter: she is
a silly little girl, and when she is older, will think she acted very
foolishly,—one ought to know more of the world before she decides on a
thing of so much importance; she is a mere baby and has seen nothing
of life. Do you often hear of Caroline, Miranda? I feel anxious lest
she should not conduct with as much discretion as she ought, as she
never knew the blessing of having a kind, indulgent mother to watch
over her and guard her from harm.
When I was in Bethlehem last summer, I got some little caps such as
the girls at school wear, and such as the sisters of members of the
Society wear. I want to find an opportunity to send them to you. Did
you ever read a description of Bethlehem? If you never did, you may
find one in some of the Boston Magazines. We had a little book called
a “Tour to Bethlehem,” which if I can find I will send you. It will
give you a very correct idea of the place, society and customs. When I
was there, there were 83 girls, from 4 to 16, at the school, from
almost every part of the United States. They all wear these little
caps tied with a pink ribbon, which looks very pretty where you see so
many of them together,—they learn music, embroidery, and all the
useful branches of education,—likewise to make artificial flowers and
many little things of that kind. Do you ever attempt painting?—’tis a
charming accomplishment, and if you have any taste for it, should
certainly cultivate it. Write me soon, and tell me when you are going
home and of anything else that interests you. Mr. Bowne often talks of
you and now desires to be particularly remembered.